Eyes Like Stars (10 page)

Finally, he wheezed, “Given half a chance, I will free not only myself, but all who are imprisoned here. Know that.”

Bertie jutted her chin at him. “Get out of my way, or I’ll punch you in the jaw for an encore.”

He bowed low, his eyes never leaving hers. “Milady.”

“I am a lady, but I’m certainly not yours.” Bertie pushed past him and ran up the stairs, two at a time in spite of her heels. She arrived on the landing gasping for breath, and when she strained her ears, she could make out the telltale echo of his mirthless laughter. Bertie exhaled as much of him as her lungs would release before setting off down the hall.

The fairies circled in a holding pattern outside the door to the Theater Manager’s Office.

“Where have you been?” Moth demanded.

“We were just coming back to look for you,” Cobweb said.

Peaseblossom reached out to blot a droplet of moisture off Bertie’s forehead with a tiny bit of tissue. “Why are you all sweaty?”

“It’s hot as hell downstairs,” Bertie said.

And I just dodged the devil.

T
he door
to the Theater Manager’s Office was different from any other in the Théâtre. Bubble-trapped glass gave the illusion of privacy while permitting dim light to filter through, and black lettering spelled out his full name, although Bertie had never dared use it. She reached for the ornate, wrought-brass doorknob that gleamed with hundreds of years of turning and polish, then hesitated.

“Go on,” Moth said, picking his nose as he hovered next to her. “I believe in you!”

“We all believe in you, Bertie.” Peaseblossom blew kisses that sparkled like flecks of fool’s gold.

Bertie squared her shoulders and knocked. A seemingly infinite amount of time spiraled out between the final hollow echo and the voice that answered, “Yes?”

“It’s B-B-B-Bertie.”
Mrs. Edith was right about the stuttering!
She took a deep breath and measured out her words in careful increments. “May I come in, sir?”

“Yes, of course.”

Bertie looked at the fairies as she opened the door. “Stay. Put.” She slid inside the chamber and shut the door firmly behind her.

Now that she was under the threat of exile, Bertie took in the familiar surroundings with new eyes. There was the enormous twin pedestal desk, the piles of paperwork, and the shelves full of books. The worn, yellow chintz draperies hanging at the windows had been deemed too shabby for use onstage some previous season. Cut-glass decanters of liquor sat open on the sideboard, and the sharp sting of brandy snaked through the haze of cigarette smoke.

The Theater Manager had his back to her as he inquired, “Would you care for something to drink? A soda, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, sir. This isn’t a social call.”

He turned, and his mouth fell open at the sight of her ensemble. To his credit, he recovered within a split second, rearranging his features into a bland expression.

The same could not be said for the Stage Manager. “Why are you dressed like a—”

The Theater Manager cleared his throat. The Stage Manager swallowed whatever word he’d intended to say, making a face as though it tasted rancid.

Bertie inclined her head at the two of them, striving to project grace and decorum. “I apologize for interrupting, but I did have an appointment.” She perched creditably on the edge of a leather-upholstered wingback chair and took a moment to adjust her glasses.

The Stage Manager intensified his glare as the Theater Manager sat down behind his desk and steepled his fingers.

“What did you decide you want to do, Beatrice?” he asked.

Bertie took a deep breath and said, “Esteemed sirs, I’m here to apply for the position of Director.”

“Director?” the Theater Manager said, not betraying anything in his expression. “Well. That’s certainly . . . unexpected.”

“It’s poppycock!” snorted the Stage Manager, his ruddy cheeks hinting at the possibility of an aneurysm.

“What do you want to direct?” the Theater Manager asked.

“Mayhem,” muttered the Stage Manager. “Scenes of utter chaos and destruction.”

The Theater Manager tapped ponderous fingers against the desk. “Let her answer the question.”

“I want to restage one of Shakespeare’s plays.” Bertie leaned forward in her enthusiasm and instantly regretted it when one of the corset’s steel bones jabbed her ribs. She gritted her teeth and smiled again. “
Hamlet
, but transported to Ancient Egypt.”

“Why would you want to do that?” The Theater Manager looked genuinely bewildered.

“If I don’t change the show in some dramatic fashion, there’d be no need for a Director, right?” Bertie asked.

“That is certainly true,” he conceded, “though you’ve yet to convince me why that’s a good idea.”

Bertie had pondered this very question at length while Mrs. Edith had dressed her, so she was prepared to attack him right where it would hurt most: the Théâtre’s coffers. “When’s the last time we sold out a performance and had standing room only?”

The Theater Manager pursed his lips. “I don’t see how that’s relevant. . . .”

“You will, once we send out the announcement about the performance. Half our patrons will be intrigued by the idea, and the other half will be outraged by such a presumption, but all of them will buy tickets and turn up. If my version is a success, I can restage other classic plays. By the end of the season, the theater could touch upon the highest point of all its greatness, the full meridian of its glory.”

“All thanks to you,” the Stage Manager said with sarcasm sharp enough to cut through her grand visions. “I suppose you haven’t stopped to consider we haven’t the time or budget for such nonsense.”

“We don’t need either,” Bertie said. The conversation
was a dance: a step to the side, a glide, a pivot, a turn. “We have the script. We have the costumes, the props, the sets.”

“We’ll help!” piped up four voices from the keyhole.

“Ridiculous,” said the Stage Manager. “Those creatures are nothing but a menace.”

“Baloney!” said the keyhole.

Bertie closed her eyes and prayed to Peaseblossom. There was a short, noisy conflict on the other side of the door, followed by blessed silence.

“Do you see?” the Stage Manager shouted anyway. “She encourages blatant disregard for the order of things. Ask her about the earthquake.”

The Theater Manager’s eyebrows collided in the middle of his forehead. “Earthquake? I don’t remember any earthquake.”

Might as well be honest about it.

“It was a very small earthquake, really,” Bertie said. “And that was some time ago.”

“You don’t say.” The Theater Manager peered at her, as though seeing her for the very first time. “That would mean you have experience coordinating large-scale projects.”

Bertie sat ramrod straight—Mrs. Edith would have been proud!—and nodded in her most reassuring manner. “I do, sir.”

“An understanding of commitment,” he said.

“Of course,” Bertie said. “Do you have any idea how much commitment it takes to pull off an earthquake? Or commandeer a pirate ship? Or teach the starfish to dance the fox-trot?”

“I’m warning you,” the Stage Manager interjected, “allowing her to become a Director would only make things worse. Think of the damage she’s already done, then imagine how much more she might do!”

The Theater Manager pondered a moment and then said with crystalline calm, “I’m afraid I agree. I cannot sanction such a course of action.”

Everything in Bertie plummeted: her hopes, her heart, her incredible posture. “But you promised!”

“It’s not that I doubt your sincerity, Beatrice, or your enthusiasm,” said the Theater Manager.

“Then might I inquire as to your objections in the matter?” Bertie was proud to manage civility when her first inclination was to shout and throw things.

The Theater Manager crossed to the window; when next he spoke, his voice reminded Bertie of the yellow silk obscuring the glass. “I fear too many changes may upset the delicate balance of this place. A balance I’ve strived to maintain, I will add, since the day you arrived here. The more time the Players spend with you, the more they transform, the more they exceed the limitations of their written parts.
Your closest friends come and go as they please with no thought as to the consequences. . . .”

“How does that hurt anything?” Her bewilderment pained her. Bertie’s fingers sought out the scrimshaw for reassurance. “I don’t understand.”

When the Theater Manager turned to exchange a long look with his colleague, the medallion took their every un-spoken word and transformed them into rustling leaves. Within seconds, the Office was a forest primeval, oak-aged secrets reaching their arms from floor to ceiling like a family tree.

The Stage Manager wove poison ivy words through the vision. “Don’t tell her.”

“She has to know, in order to grasp the importance of the situation,” the Theater Manager said.

“What do I need to know? I wish you both would stop being so mysterious!” Bertie let go of the medallion and shook her head to clear it. “This has been my home for as long as I can remember. I want to make my contribution, and you promised me I could try!”

“I did promise you, Bertie, and the theater will hold me to that promise,” the Theater Manager said. “But I fear the changes you make might permit the Players to leave.”

“I don’t understand.” Bertie frowned. “You said that wasn’t possible.”

“A wishful falsehood.” The Theater Manager’s face looked
as tight as a clenched fist, but the words that followed were fingers opening to reveal a magician’s dark coin. “What I am about to tell you must never leave this Office.” He waited for Bertie to nod before he admitted, “A long time ago, one of the Players managed to escape.”

The revelation stole her breath from her lungs, just as Ariel had in the hallway. Bertie had her suspicions, but she asked anyway. “Which one?”

“That part,” the Theater Manager said softly, “isn’t important. What
is
important is that you understand the gravity of the situation. That you proceed with the utmost caution.”

“How . . .” Bertie licked her lips. “How did it happen?”

“If I knew, I’d have put safeguards in place.”

That’s why Ariel thinks I can help him escape! He’s done it once before!

But all Bertie said was, “I just want to prove that I belong here.”

“This will be a disaster of colossal proportions.” The Stage Manager snarled his dissent. “Mark my words, we’ll find ourselves standing in the smoking ruins of the theater. I’ll have no part in it!”

The doorknob rattled. Another scuffle broke out in the hall.

“If you’ll have no part in it, I’ll give the cues myself,” Bertie said.

The Stage Manager opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, thought better of it, and shut it once more. He picked up his glass and attempted to finish off his brandy in one determined gulp.

Bertie couldn’t resist adding, “I know the headset fits.”

The Stage Manager choked. “Now see here, you pipsqueak—”

About the time he threatened her nose with his finger, Peaseblossom lost her grip on the situation with the boys. The door crashed open, and three irate fairies launched themselves at the Stage Manager. Cobweb and Moth pelted him with sequins while Mustardseed rammed beads into his ears.

“Dance!” they commanded, and dance he did, hopping with impotent anger and pain from one foot to the other as he batted his meaty hands at them.

“I’m sorry!” Peaseblossom wailed as she landed on Bertie’s shoulder. “I tried, really I did.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I didn’t try as hard as I ought when he started calling you names,” the fairy admitted. “Serves him right, the nasty old turd. Punch him again, Moth!”

The Stage Manager howled and fled as the fearsome threesome gave chase. In their pursuit, they knocked over the crystal inkwell, and Moth flew straight into the door-jamb.

“Bugger!” he yelled, either in pain or at the fleeing man’s back.

Bertie winced at the profanity, which was one of her favorites, and slanted a look at the Theater Manager to gauge his reaction.

“Look demure!” Peaseblossom coached. “And horrified.”

Bertie arranged her lips in an O of surprise, raising one gloved hand to her mouth. “Such shocking behavior,” she said, but didn’t specify whose.

“Indeed.” The Theater Manager righted the inkwell and wiped at the mess on the desk with a piece of blotting paper.

“Do let me help you with that, sir,” Bertie said.

The Theater Manager flapped his blotting paper at her. “No, no. I wouldn’t want you to soil your gloves. Or get a spot on your . . . er . . . ensemble. Mrs. Edith wouldn’t be pleased at all.”

“Quite the opposite,” said Bertie. Peaseblossom shuddered, presumably remembering the threat about the tweezers.

The Theater Manager opened a leather-bound calendar and began to flip through the pages. “There is a bit of difficulty, I’m afraid.”

Bertie leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the rows and rows of his neat lettering, until the corset reminded her of her limited range of motion. “What is it?”

He tapped a single blank spot with his fingertip. “The only opening I have in the schedule for some time is this weekend.
You can have the Friday evening slot, which is slightly less conspicuous than a Saturday night performance, but better attended than a weekend matinée.”

“That . . . that’s in
four days
!” Bertie stared at him, aghast. “There’s no way I can be ready with a new production in four days!”

“You said you have departmental support,” the Theater Manager said.

“I do, but—”

“And the Players already know their lines,” he continued.

“Yes, but—”

“So what, exactly, is the difficulty?”

“I-I-I . . .” There was the stutter again! Bertie swallowed her protests along with the superfluous vowals so intent on ruining her. “No difficulty, sir. Four days will be more than sufficient. I’ll make the announcement to the Players, run through the show a few times with the new sets and costumes. Piece of cake.”